


that which separates, also connects

by RuinedbyAnders



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Sex Worker! Hawke, Slow Build, The Boyfriend Experience, Webcamming, characters and tags to be added, past and very slight anders/fenris, the whole gangs here man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinedbyAnders/pseuds/RuinedbyAnders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Champion, as he apparently liked to call himself, was leaning back against a pile of pillows in a pair of sweatpants and not much else. It looked like he was just lying in bed, stretched out and languid, one arm draped over the top of his head. He was just as devastatingly handsome on webcam as he was in his photograph, maybe even more so with the breath of life now animating his features. Anders’ breath hitched slightly at the sight of him, and he cursed. Even the man’s body was perfect, comprised of hard lines and rigid planes of hard-worked muscle, muscular yet lean and tapered where it counted. He wasn't trying to pose seductively, or really trying to do much of anything, and somehow that made him so much more appealing to Anders then if he had been. Instantly the blonde felt more than a little emasculated by the sheer existence of this man, and he huffed. Some people had all the luck.</i>
</p><p>Anders is an overworked doctor who spends most of his free time volunteering at a clinic for the homeless. Hawke is a camwhore looking to make a quick buck. The two of them, despite all odds, forge a strong connection over the internet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, after reading a couple similar-minded fics the idea for this fic just sort of came to me overnight and I couldn't resist attempting to write it out. I have no idea how far it'll go, but I do hope to update semi-regularly. Rating it M for mature pre-emptively. Leave some feedback and let me know what you think about the premise and build up so far!

Anders frowns and stares at his blank computer screen, unsure how to proceed. He hesitates, the fingers of his right hand hovering uncertainly over the keyboard of his laptop. In the other hand he’s holding a small beer-stained napkin, and he runs his thumb along its soft surface absentmindedly. There’s a message scrawled on the front of it, written in a looping cursive that is elegant and distinctly feminine.

_www.BloomingRoseCams.com  
Sirens_Call_

Anders sighs and nearly rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the twitch at the corner of his lips that threatens to break out into a full-blown smile. It was completely beyond him how Isabela managed to have such nice handwriting, even after knocking back enough drink to make Anders nauseous by proxy. But the woman was a pleasant drunk; she never broke stride and you could only ever tell she was tipsy when she couldn't stop giggling. The memory of that very evening pulls at his mind suddenly and he can’t help recalling how the little napkin came to be in his possession in the first place.  
  
  


_“I do a little this n’ that nowadays,” Isabela purred, one hand clasped tight around the handle of a beer mug, her other arm curled underneath her ample bosom to rest against the bar top. She was beautiful, Anders thought idly, with her long legs and raven hair. She was all caramel skin and full, pouting lips that begged to be kissed. Instead, Anders knocked back another beer and stared at the coaster in front of him harder than what was strictly necessary._

_He hadn’t seen Isabela in years, so when he bumped into her that evening on the street it was inevitable that they would end up sitting together at some nameless pub to trade life stories and catch up. She was once a brief fling of his during his med-school days, and he had liked her well enough to remain friends well after it was over. At least they were for a time, before life became busy and pulled them in separate directions as it was want to do._

_“Unemployed, then?” Anders deadpanned, but he kept his tone light and joking. He wouldn't judge. Work was hard to come by nowadays, and he knew a number of people who had to survive off odd jobs and welfare checks. He treated them at the clinic often enough after all. Isabela just tutted, the way he remembered she did whenever she thought he was being purposefully obtuse._

_“I like to call it_ _'between jobs."_  
  
_Anders snorted at that before she could continue, earning himself a pouty glare._  
  
_“--Anyway. It’s not like I don't have anything going for me. In fact I guess you could say I sort of have an at-home job right now. The pay’s good, and I get to make my own hours..”_

 _That piqued Anders' interest, and he turned to look at her expectantly, bringing the mug to his lips again._  
  
_“Hm? What do you do? Is it like a small business or--”_

_“I take my clothes off on the internet.”_

_The casual and blunt way that Isabela said this had Anders sputtering into his mug, choking on his beer until he could do little more than beat his chest with the side of his fist as it devolved into a minor coughing fit. Isabela just sat there and howled with laughter, patting him on the back not-so-helpfully. When he regained his composure, the blonde wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked like he was about ready to whip out with something appropriately inappropriate to retort with. Isabela stopped him short by raising a hand, the golden bangles hanging from her slender wrist clinking together with soft metallic tings._

_“Before you ask, no, I'm not doing porno. You ever hear of this little thing called ‘webcamming’?” The smirk that made itself home on her lovely face was truly wicked, and Anders resigned himself to spending the rest of the evening learning about a part of the internet that he rarely thought to tread. Mostly out of fear than any sort of prude sensibility._

_By night’s end Anders had a pretty good understanding of what Isabela did. He even found himself agreeing with her that, honestly? It was a pretty great gig. While she could technically still be considered a sex worker, Isabela never had to worry about creepy men putting unwanted hands on her. She could stay at home, lounge about in her underwear and get paid to let whoever watch her do...whatever it was that Isabela did in the comfort of her own home. No acrobatics or seedy downtown stripclubs necessary. It was anonymous and safe. Hell, Anders might have even considered giving it a go when he was younger. Back when he was wild, handsome and newly freed from med school. He’d been charming back then, too, instead of perpetually bleary-eyed and scruffy beyond all reason._

_When they were finally ready to retire for the night, Isabela scrawled the site name on a nearby napkin in spite of Anders' flustered protests to do no such thing, claiming less than zero interest in porn sites that included even the tiniest possibility of coming across someone he actually knew. She even wrote down her username in case Anders ever wanted to look her up and have a chat, insisting that the free chatroom provided by the site for prospective clients was always clean, so he wouldn't have to worry about catching her with her tits out or anything like that._  
  
_"Unless you wanted to, of course. Don’t think I've forgotten how good a lay you were, sparkle-fingers,” she winked impishly, throwing her arm over the blonde’s shoulders to tweak his earlobe the way she somehow remembered he liked. Anders emphatically waved her away with an incoherent noise of some sort, unable to give voice to his exasperation. Another crow of laughter and Isabela disappeared from the pub with that seductive swagger of hers, but not without a final comment about his trademark earring and how much she missed it._  
  
  


He didn't know what compelled him to keep the napkin. Maybe he thought he’d keep it as some sort of amusing memento of pleasant get-together he’d had with an old friend. He never thought that by the time he was home -- lounging about in his pajama bottoms, bare feet propped up against the arm of his couch-- that he’d actually start seriously considering checking this thing out. But the curiosity was absolutely killing him at this point, and now here he was, laptop in hand. He sighed again, loudly and dramatically.

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity, don’t you Ser Pounce-a-lot? Y’know... ‘coz your a cat.”  
   
Anders turned to look at the little tabby stretched over the back of his couch, none the wiser to the great test of mental fortitude his owner was currently experiencing. The cat in question peered at him with bright, golden-yellow eyes and mewed his response. Anders chuckled and reached over to scratch him behind the ears before returning his attention back to the computer that was slung across his lap. Well, that’s decided, he supposed. His confidence now bolstered by his cat’s encouragement (okay, it was definitely because he was still a little drunk),  Anders quickly tapped away until the address bar read  _http://www.bloomringrosecams.com._

He watched patiently as the page loaded up, chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Anders was expecting some sort of bawdy, 90s-retro porno site layout with an overwhelming amount of glittery graphics that he’d be forced to close instantly on sheer principle alone. Instead, what greeted him was actually sort of pleasant. The site’s layout was a sleek and modern, a no-frills type deal done up in whites and grays with just the barest touch of pink here and there. On the left-hand side was a menu bar to narrow his search by gender, ethnicity and region, among more..interesting choices. The rest of the space was primarily dominated by rows upon rows of smiling faces and the seductively posed silhouettes of models that were currently live. It looked as though they were all either pre-selected photographs or snapshots of whatever the model was actually doing in real-time. That was sort of interesting, he guessed.

The cam models were all, of course, incredibly pretty for the most part. The front page consisted entirely of women, doing their damnedest to stand out from the crowd however they could manage. Some failed rather spectacularly at this, which he had a laugh about, but otherwise he couldn't help but feel that the vast majority of the women looked, well... pretty generic and unremarkable. He saw a few interesting splashes of color, bright pastel hair here or unique tattoos there, but he wasn't here for them. He typed Sirens_Call into the search bar, and waited.

Isabela’s picture came up easily enough. It was a photograph of her taken at an odd, but flattering angle. Stark shadows were cast along her face in contrast to the softness of her features, and her expression was sultry and enigmatic. There was just the barest tease of cleavage there too, and Anders could only assume that she had no problems getting plenty of traffic. He hesitated only for a moment this time, feeling the slight burn of a blush on his cheeks before remembering he’s already seen her naked, so what's the difference? Another click and he was at her profile, clearly marked as Offline.  
  
Of course, what was he expecting. She had probably passed out the moment she got home. He laughed self-deprecatingly, rubbed his face and wondered what he was still doing on this silly website. He drummed his fingers on the laptop, and after another moment's thought, returned to the front page. Curiosity once again won out against his better judgement and he found himself searching for someone, anyone, that looked _interesting._

Five pages later and Anders was beginning to feel a little frustrated. He'll have to change strategy if he wants to find what he was looking for. He didn't even know _what_ he was looking for, if he was looking for anything at all. His time was precious as is and he could feel himself beginning to drift from the demands of a long day, eyelids growing heavy with much needed sleep. Just a few more minutes, he told himself, before he would close his laptop and forget about the whole affair.

Soon enough he found himself browsing the male-only category, drawn now to the angular lines of handsome faces and well-worked bodies. There was a blonde with bright green eyes and the whitest teeth Anders had ever seen, and beside his thumbnail was another with long brown hair and even longer lashes, the model’s features delicate and feminine. Anders realized belatedly they were all listed by Rating, highest to lowest on a five-star system. Despite the beauty of the first two models, it was the third highest rated male who caught Anders' interest at last.

The cam model’s portrait was straightforward, no tricky angles or awkward posing. He had a handsome face with rugged features and dark, windswept hair. He sported a full beard and the oddest thing about him really was the dark red marking across his face. It slashed across the bridge of his nose like war paint, and unlike the others, he didn't smile. Anders fancied he could see the faintest of smirks curling at the edge of the man’s mouth...but that could just be the drink in him talking. Either way, he was definitely intrigued now.

The physician found himself staring at this man's profile picture for a long while, wondering what that strange marking meant. Before he could really think about what he was doing, he clicked on the model's username. He was instantly redirected to the man's personal profile.

While something loaded at the top of the page (the free chatroom, he guessed) he took a moment or two to look over what the man had written about himself.

 **Basic Profile**  
Name: The_Champion  
Age: 28  
Gender: Male  
Sexual Preference: Bisexual  
Location: Free Marches  
**Appearance**  
Chest: 119cm (47")  
Height: 1.88m (6'2")  
Weight: 84kg (185 lbs)  
Hair Color: Black  
Eye Color: Brown  
Build: Athletic  
Ethnicity: Caucasian  
Body Hair: Moderate  
Attributes: Dominant

Beyond that there were some more lines of additional ‘information’ about his body and the sorts of things he liked to do that actually made Anders blush. He was hardly virginal, but the forthright way the man described his specialties and sexual preferences made Anders -- Anders, of all people! -- feel a little bashful. Then again, that was sort of the point of the site, wasn't it? He didn't have much longer to think on it though, once the plugin at the top of the screen finally finished loading and he found his attention sufficiently diverted by what he saw.

The Champion, as he apparently liked to call himself, was leaning back against a pile of pillows in a pair of sweatpants and not much else. It looked like he was just lying in bed, stretched out and languid, one arm draped over the top of his head. He was just as devastatingly handsome on webcam as he was in his photograph, maybe even more so now that his features were lively and animated. Anders’ breath hitched slightly at the sight of him like that, and he cursed. Even the man’s body was perfect, comprised of hard lines and the rigid planes of hard-worked muscle, muscular yet lean and tapered where it counted. He wasn't trying to pose seductively, or honestly really trying to do much of anything, and somehow that was more appealing to Anders than if he had been trying too hard. Instantly the blonde felt more than a little emasculated by the sheer existence of this man, and he huffed. Some people had all the luck.

Amber eyes flitted over to the right side of the screen, to the chatroom. There were some leftover lines of a past conversation Anders had no context for and promptly ignored. There was a light ding and someone new came in, and before long this newcomer started chatting Champion up. He (or she?) spoke familiarly, and asked how he was doing. A regular customer, maybe.

And then it happened. The_Champion spoke.

Anders froze as the sound of a low, throaty chuckle washed over him, buzzing along his skin like electricity. It was just the right combination of deep and dulcet that never failed to make Anders’ toes curl. He listened to the man’s baritone voice as he spoke, casual and undisturbed, as though he were not, in fact, attempting to solicit clients on a sex site.

“Hey, ShiningArmor. I’m alright, long day. The usual.” He shrugged, and Anders watched the way his torso twisted with the movement as it turned into a fullbody stretch. He must have top-notch equipment, the blonde thought idly. He’d never seen a webcam with such crystal-clear quality.

“I haven’t seen you for what, two weeks? I bet you missed me.” The Champion broke out in a dazzling grin, and Anders hardly felt the pain as he bit into the tip of his own thumb with a low, pathetic whine that made even sleepy Ser Pounce leer at him questioningly. This just wasn’t fair. People this bloody gorgeous should not exist. This had to be fake, somehow. Maybe he was an android. Or maybe it was all make up and clever lighting. It just wasn't possible. And did he mention it was unfair? Because it was, and by the Maker Anders needed to get a hold of himself, he wasn't fifteen anymore for Andraste’s sake.

Salvation and respite from the blinding absurdity that was this Champion’s face came in the form of an abrupt change in scenery. The webcam and chatroom disappeared, replaced with an onscreen message informing Anders that The_Champion was now engaged in a Private chat, which he assumed meant that someone was now paying him for his time and ‘expertise’. Probably that ShiningArmor fellow, if he had to guess.

Anders took this as a sign that it was best to cut himself off from the internet now before he was in too deep. As brief as it was, it had been a fun little distraction, as entertaining as it was enlightening. He decided not to give the Blooming Rose too much further thought as he set the computer aside, stood upright and tucked Ser Pounce in the crooked of his arm before setting off in the direction of his bedroom.

And if he plopped into bed and fell asleep to the lingering memory of dark hair and a roguish smile, well. No one had to know.


	2. Chapter 2

Andraste's flaming _ass_ , where the hell are his _keys_?

Anders grunted, precariously balancing a number of unremarkable brown grocery bags in the crooked of his arm. His other arm was searching his pants pockets thoroughly, coming up empty again and again. He cursed once more and pressed his forehead against the door of his apartment, resignation filling him until it seeped into his weary bones. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, breathing deeply, wispy blond hair framing his face. There were always some strands that refused to be contained within the confines of his ponytail, making his hair look perpetually messy.

This was just what he needed after a long, laborious, especially _bad_ day at the clinic. He'd never regret volunteering, of course, but some days it was just plain hard not to. This was one of those days.

The faint smell of stale vomit and piss still clung to his clothes, and no amount of scrubbing his arms and spritzing linen freshener seemed to get rid of it. He had a fresh bruise on his cheek from where a large, surly woman struck him across the face for calling her fat. All because he had diagnosed her with type II diabetes.

The rest of the evening shift hadn't gone much better. After the angry woman left, Anders was saddled with a 70-odd year old man who liked to go into sordid detail about his latest STI, no matter how much the blonde kindly insisted he was well aware of the potential symptoms. Then, toward the end of his shift, an unruly gang of homeless men came in for treatment of some infected lacerations. Probably from a no-holds barred knife fight. Eventually Anders had to step in between one of them and a nurse whose butt the man was most certainly attempting to grab, and the blonde was almost certain he was going to be shanked right then and there. He practically had a heart attack over it but, thankfully, nothing of the sort happened.  
  
Between all these incidents, Anders spent most of his day cleaning soiled linens and organizing the supply closet, making for a very long, very tiring, very arduous day.

Anders patted around his chest and found a telltale lump in his dress pocket. Oh thank the Maker, he didn't forget his keys after all. Quickly he pulled them out and slid the key into the door lock, turning until he heard a solid metallic click. Anders let himself inside, closed the door behind him, and adjusted the weight of the bags in his arms. Neatly arranged in their usual spot by the door was a familiar pair of impeccably polished black loafers.

Ah, so Justice was home. When Anders reached the end of the hall, he could finally hear sounds of life: not so much from Justice himself, but rather from the living room television set. It sounded like the news channel.   
  
Anders sighed. It was _always_ the news channel.  
  
...

_“Two citizens of the Free Marches have been charged with smuggling lyrium stock worth over 750 sovereigns, hidden in a consignment of fish barrels shipped from Kirkwall to Starkhaven, officials said Monday...”_

“Well, look who finally decided to come home,” Anders said by way of greeting, making his way to the small – and rather pathetic looking – kitchen they shared. The man he was addressing was sat on the couch, watching the news intently. His posture was rigidly straight, utterly unyielding even in leisure. Sometimes Anders like to think that someone once shoved a stick so far up his ass that it became his spine.

Kristoff Justice, Anders' roommate of three years, was a tall, stoic and implacable man with a closely shaved head and piercing pale-blue eyes. He had haggard look to him, all hollowed out cheeks and dark under-eye circles, but there was an odd sense of strength about him in the hard line of his shoulders.

Justice was the sort of man that always chose his words carefully and deliberately, and to Anders' unending chagrin, he also had zero sense of humor. Instead the older man defined himself with a rigid set of ideals, an immutable black-and-white morality and an oddly poetic sense of, ironically, justice. Naturally, he was a cop. At the sound of his roommate's voice, Justice turned his head to peer at him from over his shoulder.

“Anders.” He paused thoughtfully. “Do you require assistance?”

“Nah, I'm good, I – oh bollocks.” There was a wet flopping noise as something spilled and hit the tiled kitchen floor. Justice rolled his eyes (an almost comically out of character habit, directly related to the amount of time he spent with Anders) and returned his attention to the television.

_“...a joint statement by five law enforcement and border protection agencies said. They face life in prison if convicted...”_

“How was your day?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Projectile vomiting children, morbidly obese women hitting on me. Literally, as it were.”

“You do good work there. It is a necessary--”

Anders sighed. “Yes, I know, Justice. I'm not complaining. Okay, I _am_ complaining, that doesn't mean….oh, never mind. How was your weekend with Aura?”

“Pleasant and companionable.”   
  
“Oh, I’m sure it was plenty _companionable_. So. She let you sleep in her bed this time, or the futon again?” Anders grinned, and he could practically feel the sizzle of irritation that was rising off his friend in waves at the implication. He was always testy about these sorts of things. “Since you weren’t back for a couple of days, I’m just gonna _assume_ \---”  
  
“My sleeping arrangements are none of your concern.”  
  
Anders clicked his teeth, bending over to put away the last of the groceries. “Fine, fine. Sorry for being interested in the fact that you've gotten yourself a lady friend.”  
  
“Perhaps acquiring a ‘lady-friend’ of your own would cease your apparent need to pry into other people’s business.”  
  
At that, the physician startled. That was….did Justice just _burn_ him? Anders couldn’t help it, he laughed in spite of himself. Perhaps they **were** spending too much time together after all.  
  
“Okay, okay. No need to get mean.” The blonde made sure to pop his head out where Justice could see him, pouting in a rather excessive fashion. Kristoff once pointed out that a grown man should not ‘pout’ like Anders did, so he did it every chance he got just to irritate him. “For your information, I’ve got a lady friend right here...actual gender notwithstanding. C’mere, Pounce.”  
  
The cat appeared around the corner practically on command, mewling and weaving around his legs hungrily. Anders took out a can of cat food from one of the cabinets and set about to feeding the young tabby.  
  
Instead of pointing out the obvious fallacy in Anders’ argument, Justice chose not to answer, returning his full attention to the programme he was watching. Anders took this as a signal to make himself scarce.  
  
“Alright, it’s 10,  I’m tired and I smell bad. I’m gonna shower and head to bed. Make whatever you want if you’re hungry.” Anders rolled his shoulders, heard them pop and winced at the sound.  
  
“Have you eaten?” Justice asked before his roommate could get away. He could get annoyingly motherhenny sometimes. Anders just made a vague, non-committal noise, shoved his cat underneath his arm when the critter was done eating and disappeared into his bedroom. Justice hummed, but made no move to follow him.  
  
…  
  
 _“I bet you missed me.”_  
  
Anders frowned, eyes closed, letting the water pour over him soothingly to wash away the dirt and grime of the day. Showers were always cathartic like that. With each warm rivulet that wound its way down the curves of his too-lean body, it felt as though they carried with them the frustrations of the day. Sometimes he imagined the water pooling at his feet was dark, fetid and oily with it all. Usually, right about now he’d be mentally going over the various accomplishments and failures he’d managed throughout the evening, but instead that voice was replaced by another -- rich, deep and teasing.  
  
This was so ridiculous. It’s been three days, why was he still thinking about him? _He wasn’t even talking to you_ , he told himself, but that didn't make the voice sound any less appealing to him. He twisted his hands in his flaxen hair and sighed, soapy suds trailing down his shoulders. He supposed it wasn’t all that strange, to still be thinking of a man he’d seen for all of two minutes. It was not unlike spotting a particularly attractive person at the grocery store and letting them become your fantasy fodder for the next few days. Perfectly normal.  
  
When he finally climbed out of the shower and into his small, modestly furnished bedroom, Ser Pounce -- the traitorous tart --- was casually perched atop the sleek surface of his laptop, staring right at him. Anders narrowed his eyes at him.  
  
“Are you trying to tell me something?”  
  
Ser Pounce mewed and started to purr, folding his paws underneath himself to look distinctly like a particularly pleased loaf of bread.  
  
Anders ignored him in favor of dressing himself, rummaging through his beat up, second-hand store dresser for something clean to wear. He picked out a random pair of boxers and a t-shirt to sleep in. When he put them on, he was only vaguely aware of how loosely the boxers sat on his bony hips, and how he didn’t quite fill out the old Star Wars t-shirt like he used to. He was losing weight again. Tch, no wonder Justice was becoming concerned. What kind of doctor couldn’t even care for themselves?  
  
Unwilling to think too deeply about these sorts of things, the blonde flopped onto the bed, disturbing Pounce into bouncing and bolting. He pulled his laptop to himself and switched it on. He told himself he was only going to check his e-mail.  
  
Two minutes later, and he was back on _Blooming Rose Cams_ instead, typing _The_Champion_ into the available search box. The man’s profile link popped up almost instantly. He was online.  
  
This time, when Anders tried to enter the chatroom, a window popped up prompting him to enter a username. He panicked for a moment, thinking the site was going to try to swindle his credit card information out of him, but a cursory glance told him it wasn’t asking him to make an account...just to provide a nickname for in-chat purposes. Anders drummed his fingers, thought for a minute, and began to type. _HealingHands_. He hit enter.  
  
The chatroom loaded up without further ado. It had a simple, easy to manage interface -- half of the page’s real estate was dedicated to the _The_Champion_ ’s live cam, while the other half fed him long strings of text left behind by other gawkers. This time, the dark-haired man was wearing a tank-top and a headset, leaning back against a computer chair instead of lounging on his bed. White-blue light illuminated half of his body, casting the rest of him in stark black shadows, and he seemed to be looking at something intently just off-screen. He was mid-conversation when Anders entered.  
  
“--when the studio was bought out and washed their hands of the franchise, I knew I wasn’t gonna be buying the new game. I mean, what’s the point if the original writers aren’t a part of it anymore? They made the series great and without them-- ah, shit. Bugger it all, I died. Again.” The Champion laughed anxiously and ran a hand over his face. He then lifted up the videogame controller he was cradling in his hands so that it was in clear view of the camera. He regarded his audience with a wry look on his face, and that unrelenting gaze made something pleasant twist in Anders’ gut.  
  
“I’m not good at this. At all,” he said bluntly, putting down the controller on his desk with a frustrated sigh. Anders noticed that the chat roiled to life at this.  
  
 **nexusheat:** yeah the new one is p shit  
 **nexusheat** : ha ha  
 **ShiningArmor** : haha  
**123go:** wow ur hot  
**ShiningArmor:** that’s what? Your third death in a row? :P

 _The_Champion_ chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hey, now. Don’t make fun of me, it’s not very nice.”  
  
 **AntivanGod:** are u gonna strip again  
 **AntivanGod:** do it  
 **ShiningArmor:** he’d lose a piece of clothing for every death... interesting  
 **nexusheat:** strip poker for nerds, w00t!  
  
 _The_Champion_ arched a brow and made a face, equal parts amused and longsuffering. It made Anders laugh to himself, a soft but genuine thing, and after the long day he had...it made him feel..lighter, somehow. Even the other users’ banter was entertaining, and though he never said a word, he found he sort of liked just..lurking. Listening in on the easy conversation, watching the Champion’s come to life with every animated word he spoke.  
  
To Anders’ dismay (though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, even to himself), _The_Champion_ never did strip. He spent a fair amount of time goodnaturedly protesting the proposal, pretending to be bashful, but it seemed to Anders that the man simply enjoyed being a massive tease. He clearly liked the attention, maybe even liked making people beg.  Just when it seemed like the man was finally about to relent, he checked his watch and said flatly that it was time for him to get going. He promised a raincheck, and the whole room was filled with ‘awws’ and ‘boos’. For the last time that night, _The_Champion_ laughed, and promptly logged off.  
  
Anders closed his laptop soon after and set it aside, laying back against the pillows and stretching himself out. He replayed the last hour or so in his mind’s eye. The easy conversation, all the crooked little smiles, the way the man’s eyes seemed to glint any time he looked straight into the camera. It was strange, how such a simple action made Anders feel..connected to him, somehow. Not unlike locking eyes with a handsome stranger from across the room for a moment too long. Just enough to spark something tenuous and razor-thin but _there_ , nonetheless.   
  
Not that this Champion knew Anders even existed, but there was no harm in just watching for a while, right? It had been a long time since Anders had done anything selfish and indulgent, just for the sake of it, and it was on this train of thought that the blonde realized he had had a gooby smile plastered all over his face the entire time. He snorted self-deprecatingly, called himself an idiot, and reached over to turn off the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, super sorry this chapter took so long guys, I've had a super stressful, crazy month or so. 
> 
> I promise actual interaction next chapter! As much interaction as you get get over a computer, anyway. I guess I just like writing Shy!Anders, haha.


	3. Chapter 3

“--and then when I tried to roll him over, I must have pushed a little too hard and the body just, flopped over. Right onto the table with a biggest smack, before letting out an _enormous_ fart. Gas just exploded out of this guy. It echoed three times -- three times! I counted!”

Oghren hooted with laughter, the sound throaty and cackling and, in Anders’ humble opinion, thoroughly grating; not unlike the sound of dragging something dead through muddied gravel. It certainly looked as though there was a dead thing on his face, the blonde thought idly while he put away his things into a standard-issue locker. It was bright-red, furry, and even twitched whenever he took a sniff of his drink.

“Farting corpses, classic.” Anders’ lovable (and smelly) oaf of a friend grinned and gulped down more of his suspiciously amber-colored drink. It dribbled down his chin and splashed onto his beard, little droplets making their way down to leave tiny stains on his uniform. A right charmer, that one. He definitely wasn’t supposed to drink on the job, but that never stopped him. He was lucky the Boss liked him so much. At least the man _tried_ to be subtle about it…

Oghren belched loudly, and Anders winced.

Sort of.

Sigrun was grinning too, leaning forward on the table with her hands planted firmly on the surface. She was positively glowing with pride that her little story had elicited such a reaction from the ragtag group of friends gathered together in the staff room.

Now this one was cute. Adorable, even, with her short dark hair parted at the ends into two stubby lil’ pigtails. Her lab coat -- specifically that of some sort of pathologist -- was too long on her, and her legs were so short that they dangled off the edge of the bench from which she sat. Just about the only thing that marred her childlike image were the garish, faded tattoos that covered her face. And the fact that she cut up dead bodies for a living.

... Aaand the fact that she was incredibly, creepily morbid about everything. Ah, well. Nobody’s perfect.

“The Legion’s not going to be the same ever again, really. Dear Maker, just the _smell_ \--”

“ ‘The Legion?’ ” Came a hard, questioning voice from the far side of the room. Everyone turned around to look at the speaker. The voice came from a svelte, shapely woman with long legs, a blonde up-do, and a constant frown on her delicate face. She was a relatively new -- but apparently talented -- surgeon in the hospital’s employ, and had only just started coming to the group’s little get-togethers at the end of the day. She was probably herded into it by Amell, aka The Boss, to ‘make friends’ and ‘not want to kill all your colleagues’. Words that sounded a lot like something Amell would actually say, if Anders had to guess. She was leaning on the wall with her arms crossed, waiting expectantly for an answer.

He shook his head. She was pretty, though, exceptionally so. Anders might have hit on her once if everything that came out of her mouth wasn’t so damned irritating. Oghren hit on her anyway, even though he was a divorcee with a kid and had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting into her pants.

“Perky here likes to call her little corner of the hospital the ‘Legion of the Dead’,” Oghren sniggered, finally wiping that dribble off with the back of his hand.

“That’s childish and unnecessary. Call it what it is: the morgue. There’s no need to sugarcoat it with names fit for a child’s storybook.” Velanna sneered, turning up her nose haughtily. Anders vaguely wondered who twisted her panties into a permanent state of being.

“I think it’s clever,” Anders said mildly, now running his hands through his wispy hair. He attempted to tame it back into a half-pony using only the small mirror taped to the inside of his locker. It had gotten mussed throughout the day and was starting to get into his eyes. “And funny, too. Stop picking on Sigrun just because the idiosyncrasies of humor are missed on you.”

Sigrun, whose face had fallen at Velanna’s reprimand, positively beamed at him. Anders chanced a look at her and smiled back, offering her a conspiratorial wink. She giggled, and like the diplomat she was, forged on ahead.

“It’s okay, I get it. I just think it makes things more interesting. There’s only so much fun you can have sitting in a room full of dead people all day.”

There was a small clamor as Anders shut his locker quickly, gathering what he planned to bring back home in a small tote bag that was definitely not a manpurse.

“Alright then, I’m off!” He said hurriedly, winding his way through the room and all its occupants.

“Hey, isn’t still a little early?” Oghren squinted at the the clock, and then eyed Anders. “How come you been in such a hurry to go home all the time? You don’t even come to the cafeteria to grab food with th’ rest of us anymore. It’s not my manly smell, is it?” Oghren sniffed himself and wrinkled his nose, but otherwise did not look like he had any attention of remedying said smell.

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be elsewhere, Oghren?” Anders deflected testily. He waved his hand about emphatically to indicate the general direction of ‘elsewhere’. “You know, doing guardly things? Watching the security cameras, et cetera?”

“I got an earlier shift today. Tall, Dark and Broody’s out there doin’ all that now, thank ya very much.” He burped again, a light but deadly one, and Sigrun was the one to wrinkle her button nose this time. She pointedly slid further away from Oghren.

Anders grimaced at the name, and left everyone sitting there with a wave and a hasty goodbye. He was just running a map of the hospital grounds through his head, deciding to take an alternate route from his usual to avoid this particular security guard when -- in his carelessness -- he ran straight into the solid wall of someone’s back.

Anders blinked up and already started muttering apologies when he saw tanned skin, a shock of white hair and an imperious frown. Dear _Maker_ , He couldn’t just let him off easy this one time, could He?

“Watch yourself.” Emerald green eyes glared at him, and the guard -- Fenris -- looked about as condescending as ever. He crossed his arms, tattoos lining nearly every inch of exposed skin in swirly Tevinter motifs. They were usually on opposing schedules (Amell made sure of it, bless his heart) but bumping into each other on occasion was, unfortunately, inevitable.

The blonde huffed indignantly, wagging a finger in his face. “Now don’t you start with me! I was just distracted is all. I’m actually on my way home, so…” He hoped Fenris would take the hint and move aside. He did not. Damn him and his lithe but incredibly built body. He’d be impossible to forcibly push aside in the narrow corridor.

“Perhaps if you removed your head from the proverbial clouds and planted your feet more firmly in reality for once, this wouldn’t be an issue, _nurse_.”

Anders bristled. “Don’t call me that!” he almost yelled, until he remembered there were rooms with sick and resting people nearby. “I’ve never been a nurse! The term is _resident physician_ , thank you very much. I’m not one anymore I’ll have you know, I’m a full fledged MD now. See?” He flashed his ID tags at him, but the man with the impossibly green eyes seemed unimpressed by his bravado.

“How they made anyone like you into a physician is beyond me.”

“Not good enough to be a doctor, but oh, definitely still good enough to stick your tongue down my throat, right? Don’t think I don’t see you check out my ass every now and again.” Anders scoffed, and felt triumphant when the man’s eyes flashed and narrowed at him.

It was a low blow, but it was the only real leverage he had. It had happened ages ago -- a quick tryst in an abandoned storage room, shortly after Fenris’ employment began at the hospital and Anders was a reckless (and horny) mess undergoing his residency. It was a spur-of-the-moment, ‘Maker you’re terrifying but fucking hot’ sort of thing. Afterwards, the moment they actually opened their mouths to try and get to know one another all _hell_ broke loose. And that was the end of that, really. They had contradictory views on just about everything and while they would bicker often, they tolerated each other for the most part.

Just barely.

“The silence isn’t a ‘no’,” Anders pointed out, and Fenris bristled like a feral cat. He pointed violently down the hall.

“ _Leave_.”

The blonde walked past him rather smugly, practically breaking into a run before the very air particles around him vaporized in the heat of the security guard’s ire. That, and he was still in a rather big hurry to finish a few late-night errands and get to more...important things.

***

When Anders finally swept into the apartment like a veritable golden hurricane that night, Justice was preparing a late-night dinner. They both had frantic schedules that meant frequent late shifts, so for them, it was a rather normal affair. Justice usually got back a little earlier when he wasn’t following difficult, time-sensitive leads on hard cases. Which was just as well, since he was the better cook of the two. Anders was absolute shit at cooking.

He dropped another set of groceries onto the kitchen countertop, whirling around Justice to pluck a steaming bowl of stew that the man had just ladled right out of his hands. “Hello! I hope work went well today. You didn’t have to break anyone’s arm again today, did you? Tch. Criminals. Oh, food, excellent. Thank you.”

Justice stared blanky at him, and before he could even get a single word in, Anders was already making his way out of the kitchen. “I’m going to my room. G’night!” and that was that.

Kristoff Justice just kept staring in his roommate’s general direction, confusion and vague interest pulling his eyebrows into a steep arch. Anders had been acting...strange, lately. For well over a week now, every night, he hurried through tasks and went straight to his room. It was...curious, and while Justice did not want to pry, he wondered if the man had found himself some sort of new hobby. He would need to have sit-down talk with that one though. He was slacking in his chores, and Justice did not tolerate sloth.

There was a small meow, and police officer looked down to stare at Ser Pounce-a-lot. They exchanged a meaningful look together and then Justice grunted, nodding his head and returning his attention back to the simmering pot to ladle himself a new bowl of stew. These would be things he would reflect on later.

…

Anders stripped out of his work clothes and wiggled into his pajamas in record time, flopping unceremoniously onto his bed with a soft ‘oomph’. He reached out for his laptop, flung it open, and soon enough he was back at Blooming Rose Cams. He logged in, and waited impatiently for _The_Champion_ ’s page to load. This was his sad, pathetic little routine now. Every night since he’d created his username, he found himself coming here. Each passing day found himself more and more obsessed, getting distracted at work and rushing his errands just so he could be home faster. Just so he could see _him_ , the marvelous piece of work that was the Champion. Anders sat up in bed, crossed his legs, and held up the bowl of stew to eat while he watched.

The Champion was sitting in bed in the dim light of what the blonde could only assume was his bedroom. There wasn’t much to make out -- dark red sheets (who the hell owned red comforters? This guy did, apparently) and a wooden headboard. Anders could barely make out the edge of a poster taped above it. He seemed to be browsing his computer idly, looking a little bored. When Anders chanced a glance at the chat-room and guest list, he could see why: there was hardly anyone in today. Just a few stragglers, and no one was really talking. A few minutes of this and the blonde started to wonder if the Champion would do anything at all except sit there. Not that he minded if he just sat there…but he wouldn’t mind if he did more, either….

Suddenly there was a sound, a soft grunt that was barely a chuckle, and Anders looked to see if he could decipher what had caused it.

“I see you there, _HealingHands_. Not very talkative, are you?” Far from chastising, he sounded amused.

It took the healer an embarrassing amount of time to realize he wasn’t talking to just anyone, he was talking to Anders. Directly. This gorgeous beast of a man was _talking to him_ , and it caused his entire brain to crash and burn and he was pretty sure that this was what an aneurysm felt like.

“You’ve come in, like, every day for nearly two weeks, but never say anything. You’re like, the serial-est of serial lurkers.” He chuckled again. “C’mon, talk to me, I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that,” He grinned at the camera winningly, and it was like he was looking straight at Anders. It made him feel woozy.

The blonde instantly slammed the laptop shut and bounced off his bed in a moment of irrational panic, heart hammering in his chest, stew sploshing morosely unto his t-shirt. He felt a pang of self-loathing. What was he, a snivelling teenager the first time his crush talked to him? He set the bowl aside and paced his room, hands intermittently switching between being held behind his back to locking behind his head. Should he talk back? He didn’t want to get any more involved than he was, that was dangerous. He didn’t want to trip into the rabbit hole of falling more and more deeply into the little fantasy the camsite provided him. Didn’t want to….

He stared at his laptop long and hard, before sighing and settling back into his spot on the bed. He opened it, and tore off his shirt to flop dejectedly on the floor to be cleaned later. The Champion’s webcam flickered back to life, and the man raised his brows, having probably seen him re-enter.

Anders bit his lip and, hesitantly, started to slowly type something out.

 **HealingHands:** sorry. internets bad. hi

It was a shit story, and the devilishly attractive man didn’t seem to buy a word of it, but graciously he didn’t pry. He smiled kindly instead.

“Atta boy. I always like to get a feel for my audience. Enjoying the show, I imagine?”

 **HealingHands:** its interesting

The Champion’s brows rose even higher this time, as though unsure whether to take that as a compliment or a disguised insult. Anders hurriedly typed to remedy his faux-pas, realizing just then how douchey that sounded when said aloud.

 **HealingHands:** i mean, its good  
**HealingHands:** i like you  
**HealingHands:** watching you, i mean.

Anders groaned. He was just as ridiculous and rambly when he’s nervous online as he is in real life, apparently. He could only hope the Champion didn’t take him for some some sort of creep and kick him out right then and there…

He didn’t. Instead, he hummed approvingly.

“You know, most people don’t even say hi, but they almost always have requests. ‘Do this, do that’. You never do, though.” He tilted his head, and looked directly at the screen. “What are you into, darling? I’m sure I can accommodate you. Not much else going on today.”

It took Anders much longer to answer this time.

 **HealingHands:** nothing. i mean, i don’t know  
**HealingHands:** Whatever you normally do is fine.

 _The_Champion_ , the cheeky bugger, took this opportunity to strip off his shirt agonizingly slowly. Or at least it felt that way, even though it couldn’t have been more than a leisurely disrobing. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his torso in such a way that it caught the light beautifully. He looked like a lovingly carved statue, an actual paragon of masculinity compared to the overly-lean blonde. Anders groaned again, it wasn’t fair at all.

When Anders forgot entirely about his ability to actually respond to that, the Champion laughed and slouched his shoulders, resting normally again.

“You’re a shy one, aren’t you? We’ll have to break that habit, I suppose.” The blunt, cocksure way that the model said this made shivers run down Anders’ spine. He really wasn’t kidding when he put ‘dominant’ down as an attribute, huh.

Without waiting for Anders to respond, the Champion put his headset back on and grabbed a wireless mouse from off his desk.

“So, _HealingHands_ , tell me. Ever heard of The Sims?”

The conversation after that was pleasant, and lasted about half an hour. When Anders admitted that no, he wasn’t really one for video games, the Champion went on to give him a rundown of what kind of game he was talking about. Apparently it was some sort of fantasy life simulation, where your character -- an avatar of oneself, he assumed - could acquire a job, get a house, build a family and get into increasingly ridiculous shenanigans. The Champion played while talking to him, and sometimes Anders was brave enough to tease him whenever something unforeseen happened in-game. The man was just having a grand old time trapping various NPCs in toilet barriers when one of his regulars came in and asked to take him exclusive. Anders took the opportunity to mention that he should probably get going.

The Champion took off his headset and confirmed that the client could take him private. Before Anders left, the the roguish model winked at the screen and grinned.

”See ya later, _Healing_. Was fun talking to you.” With that, his screen went blank, displaying the “This model has been taken private’ message for Anders to gawk stupidly at.

The blonde pressed a closed hand to his stubbled cheek, smooshing it. He could feel heat radiating from his cheeks, warming his blood pleasantly. He was smiling, feeling a rush of..happiness? Infatuation? Contentment? The ephemeral feeling was difficult to pin down. The Champion was so sure he’d come back....though, to be fair, it was rather obvious that he would, wasn’t it?

Anders was absolutely _hooked_ , and there was nothing he could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Goodness, I had SO much fun writing, so I hope ya'll liked it. Whole buncha new characters, I really couldn't resist bringing the Awakenings companions into this. The whole damn gang is gonna show up at some point or the other. Now...why is Fenris with the Awakenings crew and not Hawke? Where's Nathaniel? Ye shall see, my friend. Ye shall see. /waggles brows. Also! Heads up, there's gonna be a Garrett POV chapter next! Dont forget to leave me feedback on what you think so far of the story, the interactions and characterizations, etc. I'm not kidding when i say they usually spur me on to write updates faster because I get so excited!
> 
> some other notes:
> 
> I have a Tumblr DA! Artblog now. [Click here](http://sapphu-is-ruined.tumblr.com/) to check it out. There's only two diddly doodles there so far but I plan to draw things relevant to this fic and more very soon *A* Ill also make chapter announcements there probably
> 
> Also shoutout to [Cyanopsis](http://cyanopsis.tumblr.com/) for being rad and sharing ideas with me! Shes got her own version of this AU (over [here](http://cyanopsis.tumblr.com/post/113228030627/au-where-anders-has-a-crush-on-an-online-male) ) in comic format, seriously, check it out, it's great.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god I am so sorry this took so long rip me  
> but look!! a chapter that's longer than normal! I haven't really proofread it that well yet so I'm sure it's riddled with errors and poor writing choices, I'm really tired and I'll come back and fix stuff up later I promise. but so many people wanted to see a new chapter that I'd feel guilty holding onto it any longer haha. Enjoy!

_A low, breathless sigh. A moan like rolling thunder, rumbling through a heaving chest covered in a soft layer of fur. Sweat beading along tanned, wind-chafed skin to pool in small dips along a weathered frame. The soft rustle of fabric, and the low creak of a bed strained from motion. A thick bicep pulled impossibly taut, jerking rhythmically to a carnal beat. A low heat fanned to a blazing, brilliant fire -- drowning out the noise until there was nothing but pure sensation brought forth by practiced fingers, his body the instrument and his voice the song._  
  
 _A stifled shout. Release, sticky and sweet. A tiny blue pinprick of light, watching, waiting. Recording._  
  
\---  
  
Garrett Hawke falls back into his bed, arms thrown over his head. His breathing comes heavy and thick, feeling a chill creep up his skin now that excitement has fled him and sweat begins to dry. Jacking off in front of a camera always leaves him feeling vaguely unsatisfied in the end, meaning that that almost every night, he is left a little bit wanting.   
  
It isn't quite the same, working only himself to completion. Rubbing himself raw, fucking himself on a toy or -- alternatively --  his own hand. Solo nights have become something of a chore for him, but it is becoming increasingly more difficult to find someone willing to fool around with him to the delight of anonymous strangers. It was hard enough finding somebody willing to fool around (repeatedly. consistently. _exclusively_ ) with someone who is essentially an introverted porn star. Even without his unscrupulous day-time activities being thrown into the mix.   
  
It didn’t help that for a camboy, Hawke was picky. He hasn’t been in a relationship for years, only barely able to stave off all-encompassing loneliness with one night stands and horny internet voyeurs. Which worked fine for him, except when it didn’t.  
  
He glances at the screen of his laptop, propped up on the corner of his bed. There's a timer counting down the time he has left before he's thrust back into public chat: 30 seconds. Shit. He really needs to stop contemplating life between sessions.  
  
Quickly Garrett sits up and snatches his supplies from a side table. A small towel and some wipes does wonders to clean him up just in time. He ignores his reflection in the camera window in order to focus wholly on the chat.  
  
 **HealingHands:** applied liberally, the ointment I’ve described should ease the symptoms within a day or two  
 **Gingerbait** : thanks dude ill hit up a pharmacy asap. the itchins killin me  
 **HealingHands:** hope it helps  
 **Supergaynerd:** u guys are gross  
 **Supergaynerd:** the champion has returned! :-)  
  
Garrett blinks at the screen, momentarily stunned into disbelief at the unexpected turn in conversation. He was expecting the usual mass of lewd commentary, not..whatever this is. He barks out a laugh and rubs his forehead tiredly.  
  
“Really guys? While I’m gone you just...huddle all together and discuss the medica treatments for various venereal diseases? I’m not sure how to feel about this.”  
  
 **Gingerbait:** sry  
 **cd153:** ur hot show ass  
 **MistressTizzy:** thank god you’re back, I was afraid the conversation was going to get graphic. Who invited Ginger and Healing over here?  
  
Garrett rests his chin on one of his hands, thoroughly amused. He waits for Healing (an odd, quiet type that's he's recognizing as a potential regular) to respond, but no answer seems to be forthcoming and the conversation continues in earnest without him.  
  
When someone expresses interest in taking him private again, Hawke shakes his head. “Nah, I can’t, sorry. I only had about an hour today, got things to do. People to meet, that sort of thing. I’ll make up for it this weekend, I promise.”   
  
It is to a chorus of ‘awws’ and ‘boos’ (and a single, polite ‘Goodnight.” from the ever-mysterious _HealingHands_ ) that Hawke signs off for the night. He is tired, but pleased; for only an hours work, he made about triple his normal wages for the same amount of time. Garrett wipes down the rubber sheet he’d been laying on (he's  **not** going to clean his bedsheets every damn night, afterall) and meanders over to the small, cramped shower adjoined to his room.  
  
It's one of his few comforts, having his own room and shower now that Carver is gone. _Away, not gone_ , his mother would reprimand him. It's still a sore point for Leandra, that one of her surviving children would leave her so suddenly. Honestly, everyone had felt a little betrayed by Carver’s secret application for -- and subsequent admission to -- a far-off military academy barely year after their sister’s passing.  
  
Hawke spared a thought for poor little Bethany. Her sunny smile and kind, honey-brown Hawke eyes. Hearty and hale one day, wracked with fever the next and dead not a week later. It was the Blight that took her, a plague of the worst kind that sprung up from the filthy alleys and fetid waters of Darktown. It’s been declared a city-wide epidemic since it finally reached the darkest corners of Lowtown. Still, the occurrences were low enough that Hawke did not fear that rest of his family would fall victim. Bethany had just been unlucky, and Hawke hated himself to this day for not having had the means to cover the cost of the insurance and medical care that might have saved his baby sister's life.  
  
Putting the depressing thoughts aside, Garrett dresses himself in jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket with a built-in hoodie before meandering his way upstairs.  
  
Gamlen’s house is little more than a hovel in what is essentially the big city projects. It's divided into three rooms by thin walls, aside from the half-finished basement Garrett called his own. He had renovated it with his bare hands, just enough to be in livable condition. Dying of chokedamp would be a poor way to go, afterall.  
  
The paint on the walls is cracked and stained in shades of yellow and brown with decades of water damage, and the floors are uneven and scratched. But it's home, nonetheless.  
  
Ever since they moved to Kirkwall, the Hawkes did the best that they could: hand-stitched crochet and quilt covered the furniture, framed photos and discount art were hung on the walls and mismatched rugs were spread on the floor. His uncle Gamlen’s only contribution to this cozy atmosphere was the number of empty bottles of liquor he left lying around.  
  
His mother is in the kitchen, humming to herself while she toils over supper. Dog was spread out on the kitchen tiles, and the moment his owner appeared the dog was on its feet woofing in greeting. Hawke glides in with his easy manner, kisses his mother on the cheek on the cheek, and pets the full-grown Mabari affectionately. “I’m going out,” he said by way of greeting. “Gotta talk to someone about a job. Save me a plate, yeah?”  
  
Hawke makes a grab for some bread, and Leandra Hawke shooes him away before his wandering hands could find their way into more food.   
  
“Supper’s almost finished. Can’t you stay?”  
  
“Can’t do. Varric’ll kill me if I’m late. I’ve already done it twice this week, I’m liable to get a tiny foot up the ass the third time around.”  
  
“Watch your language,” his mother chides, but there's no real heat behind it. “Go on then, you can warm up a plate when you get home.”  
  
He thanks her through a full mouth of bread, spraying crumbs all over the place before he turns a corner and jogs his way out the house. On the broken-down stoop, he takes a minute to fish his phone out of his pocket and looks at the time.  
  
Varric really was going to kill him. Hawke grins, and takes off into the night.  
  
\---  
  
For a Lowtown bar, The Hanged Man is almost respectable. It has a rustic, old-world feel to it; everything's made up of some sort of dark wood and the walls are covered with a cheap -- but nice looking--  stone facade. The bar itself is more or less clean, the back wall glittering with rows upon rows of glass bottles of varying size and quality. It's the only Lowtown bar with a full-service kitchen behind it. It really would be a respectable joint..if it weren’t for the dark stains of dubious origin that could be found scattered throughout the floor. Some things just never washed out, no matter how hard you scrubbed them.  
  
As far as Garrett was concerned, it was the best bar in the whole of this rat-infested city.  
  
Varric can be found in his usual spot, lounging comfortably in his personal booth in a dimly lit corner of the pub. Garrett sticks one of his hands in the pocket of his jeans and makes his way over, waving to the barkeep Corff genially with the other. Corff just snorts, gives him a nod of acknowledgement, and keeps on washing bottles.  
  
“Hawke,” Varric greets neutrally, before pulling burnished copper reading glasses off a sizable nose. Varric swore the nose was 'regal' and that it gave him ‘character’.   
  
The man folds the glasses closed with a gentle click, sets them aside, and looks up at the tall youth in front of him.  
  
Varric...well. He’s right, he really is a bit of a character. Short of stature and broad of chest, Varric looked like he belonged in a mansion in Hightown, not some seedy bar in the under-city of Kirkwall. His favorite coat was high quality genuine leather and all the buckles appeared to be real silver. He's a fan of gold trim and gold jewelry. Both of his ears are glittering with hoops, and his oft-naked chest was more often than not decorated in gold as well. Sometimes, his jewelry was even inset with an odd ruby or two when he was feeling particularly festive.   
  
Hawke couldn’t help but feel like the man with the slicked back hair was sprung from one of those novellas he so often boasted about writing, and looking at him now he couldn’t help but feel just a little bit intimidated by it. In spite of this, Garret smirks, fearless.  
  
Varric leans back and raises his hands, offering Hawke a sarcastic 'welcome' gesture.  
  
“And so the boy _finally_ graces us with his presence.”  
  
“I’m not actually late this time, you know,” Garrett takes a seat, and the chair squeakes unpleasantly in protest of the sudden weight. “In fact I am a whole minute early.”  
  
Varric regards the man's puffy red cheeks and sweat-slicked temples, then snorts.   
  
“It looks like you ran across half the city just to manage that.”  
  
“I might have,” He shrugs and leans back, throwing one arm over the back of his chair in order to appear the perfect mix of confident and cool. But because it was Hawke, with that dazzling grin of his, it just came out cocksure and maybe a little try-hard. Varric shakes his head, but grins in spite of himself.  
  
“You’re lucky I like you, kid.”   
  
“So...what’s this about a job?”  
  
Varric takes a moment to scrutinize him again. The guy was just a kid, really. Barely 25, but built like a bear and possessed of a quick wit that’s already gotten him both in and out of a couple of scrapes. In his line of work, Varric generally prefers people with more...experience to handle his brother's more valuable stock, but in the last year or so that he’s worked for him, Hawke has quickly proven himself in the field. A rising talent, if you will, and Varric means to capitalize on this.  
  
Varric sets aside the paperwork he’d been working on, folds his hands in front of him and fixes Garrett with a hard stare. Hawke’s lazy grin falters and he awkwardly adjusts himself on the seat, sitting a bit straighter. Time to talk business.  
  
“Are you tired of doin’ shit jobs?” Varric starts, setting all the cards down on the table from the get go. “You tired of running from one meatpacking district to the next, hoisting nondescript boxes from one truck to the next? Tired of making drops in abandoned warehouses, and running frantically through dirty alleyways when those drops are half an hour apart on opposite sides of the city? Tired of doing the work nobody else wants to do?”  
  
Hawke looks momentarily startled by the offer. He seems to be considering whether this was a trick question.   
  
“Uh...yeah, sure? I guess?”  
  
“I need some stock moved, and people I trust to move it. Now, are you a gambling man?” The intensity of Varric’s gaze doesn't waver, and even Hawke could feel the gravitas of what the man was saying. Before Hawke could respond, Varric waves him off.  
  
“Nah,” he muses mostly to himself in quiet tones. “A man who would work 12 hour shifts to support his mother and pissant drunk of an uncle wouldn’t gamble. Don’t think I don’t know you’re sending money to Carver’s school to help cover costs, either.” Garrett looks ready to protest, but Varric isn't having any of it.   
  
“Anyway, that’s not the point. There’s one golden rule in gambling: When the stakes are high, so are the payouts.”  
  
Now Hawke was starting to look a little bit nervous, fidgeting in his seat. Varric sighs and tries to offer him a reassuring smile.  
  
“Now, now, don’t start cooking in your boots just yet. I like you, and I’m not eager to send you anywhere particularly dangerous just yet. It’ll be easy.” His voice drops down an octave, ensuring that none of the other patrons could hear. “Just need to get a little Blue from point A to point B and badabing, badaboom, you’re done, and with a hefty paycheck to boot.”  
  
For a moment, Garrett was confused. Blue? What the hell was -- oh. Fuck. Holy Shit.  
  
Lyrium.  
  
Varric wants him to move Lyrium around. The millennial drug. A rare (and definitely illegal) pharmaceutical that was highly addictive and very dangerous in large dosages. There are people who would not hesitate to kill him for an armload of the stuff.  
  
“I…” Garrett swallows. Just how much..compensation were they talking about here? Double -- no -- triple his current rate? Maybe even more? The possibilities made his head spin. They could pay their rent on time, mother could buy nice things for herself, they could fix the place up proper...no. Maybe this could lead to even better jobs. Maybe, just maybe -- and he rarely dared to dream this --  he could finally start saving up to buy back the estate they’d lost. Their true home, the one that Gamlen had gambled away. Hawke broke out in a cold sweat, and started rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
“I...I dunno, Varric..” he finishes lamely. This sounded like seriously dangerous work, way past the level of his current role of ‘simple delivery boy’. The blonde man seemed to anticipate the uncertainty, and reaches over to pat him heavily on the shoulder.

“Shh, not here. C’mon, let’s talk about it in my office.” Varric rose, and Garrett follows him uncertainly to his ‘office’. It's little more than the cramped apartments he was renting on the second floor, really, but that's where all the real deals were made.  
  
“No need to make a decision now, of course. It’s just a little proposal, is all...”  
  
\---  
  
When Garrett returns home, it's well past midnight. The rooms are dark, and he can hear the soft sounds of snoring emanating from his mother’s room. Gamlen’s wall-shaking throat gurgles are missing entirely, which means he isn't home. Typical.   
  
Quietly Hawke crept along the wood floors. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from his mother on coming home late and, even worse, not eating the supper she had laid out for him. Deciding that he wasn’t feeling terribly hungry tonight afterall, he ignores the kitchen and descends the stairs to the basement.  
  
Shutting his door closed behind him, Garrett heaves a long-suffering sigh and leans against it. There's so many thoughts swirling about in his head, so many decisions to make. So many pros and so many cons to go over. He and Varric had had a long talk about the proposal. The whens, the wheres,the whats of an elaborate plan just vague enough to help him understand what he was (possibly) getting into..without knowing _too_ much. It was all very cloak-and-dagger and...well, a little terrifying.  
  
Okay. _Very_ terrifying. But exciting, too. He was Garrett Hawke after all...what could possibly go wrong?  
  
Hawke laughs quietly to himself, running a hand through his dark hair and mussing it beyond repair. Yeah, right.  
  
Having stripped down to nothing but a pair of shorts, Garrett flops onto his bed with a noisy creak and flips open his laptop. He should go to sleep, he knows -- he’s tired, and not really up for another show tonight, but sometimes he likes to log in just to say hi and waste a little time.  
  
It’s slow. He’s turned off Private invitations, and while he knows it means less traffic (after all, most have not logged on just to chat with their favorite models) it seems even slower than usual. There are only three people in his room, and conversation is short and stilted. He’s checking his e-mail and browsing the internet’s odds and ends in a separate window when there’s a sudden beep. It’s a digitized chime that indicates a new visitor. He looks over to see who it is, hoping for one of his chattier regulars.  
  
 **HealingHands:** Hello  
  
Garrett offers him a tired half-smile and a two-fingered wave of acknowledgement. Normally right about now he’d be ramping up the charm, but it’s not like he’s looking to draw in prospective clients right now anyway.   
  
“Hey-o.”   
  
Like usual, Healing is slow to respond, and Garrett wonders if he’s one of those old bogeys that doesn’t know how to type with more than one finger at a time.  
  
 **HealingHands** :  How are you?  
  
“I’m alright. Long day. Bit of a headache, lots of stuff goin’ on. Not very sexy, is it?” He smiles self-deprecatingly and runs a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit that does little but spike it in all different directions.  
  
 **HealingHands:** it’s fine  
  
Eloquent, this one. So much for a chatty regular. Garrett tries again.  
  
“Weren’t you here earlier? Talking to Ginger about a rash or whatever?”  
  
Healing takes even longer to respond this time, as if startled by the question, and Garrett isn’t sure if he overstepped somehow. Internet types are always kind of sensitive.  
  
 **HealingHands:** is that weird?  
  
Garrett feels a little guilty now about putting him (her?) on the spot, and he isn’t sure why. Being an internet porn star has given him something of a cynical view of mankind in general, but there’s something strangely innocent about the way Healing is so self conscious about the things he or she says and does. It’s something he’s noticed in all their barely-there conversations.  
  
“No, no, not at all.” Garrett waves the notion away with a grand gesture. “People come in here all the time talking about whatever. I like it, actually. Better than the chat being filled with ‘oh my god you’ve got great abs’ ‘and ‘can i see your ass’ and ‘can you take my 12 inch cock baby’ which, mind you, I often question the veracity of such statements.”  
  
He wonders if Healing laughs out loud. It’s strange, communicating with someone but receiving so little feedback in return. He doesn’t even know what this person looks like, but it doesn’t make the conversation itself any less entertaining.  
  
 **HealingHands** : haha  
 **HealingHands:** I’m glad to be of service  
  
“So, Healing. I’m curious about your handle. I mean, people log in with some crazy names, but yours is..oddly specific. And slightly perverted, though I’m not sure you meant it that way.” He grins wolfishly, and receives another pause for his efforts.  
  
 **HealingHands** : i probably should have thought it out better  
 **HealingHands:** I’m not very good with names.  
  
“It’s gotta mean something, though. Magic hands...you some kind of masseuse? Lord, I’d give you a free show just to get a session if that were possible.” As if to demonstrate, Garrett rolls his shoulder and it cracks audibly. He winces at the sound.  
  
 **HealingHands:** no, not a masseuse  
 **HealingHands:** i’ve been told that I’m good at it, though

 **HealingHands:** Massages, I mean.  
 **HealingHands:** good hands for it  
 **HealingHands:** ...whatever that means  
  
Hawke raises a dark brow, surprised by Healing’s candor.  This is, by far, the most conversation they’ve had so far. He wonders vaguely if Healing understands the hidden innuendo rampant in his last few lines of text, or if he’s completely oblivious to the whole thing. If he had to guess based on past behavior, he’d say the latter. Healing was nothing if not polite.  
  
He had to give it to the guy. This was..unusual, even by internet standards. By this point, most users would have demanded something from him or taken him private, but Healing seems content simply to chat.   
  
“Ok. Not a masseuse then. Let’s get a little more literal then. A nurse? Vet, maybe?”  
  
 **HealingHands:** Close.  
  
Oh, now he was just being coy. Or maybe just reticent? Garrett couldn't be sure. Maybe Healing is paranoid about giving out too much information on the internet. He could understand that, sort of.  
  
The Champion huffs in mock frustration and scratches the beard climbing up his cheek.   
  
“Ok, ok, I get it. Personal information and all. Don’t mean to pry, like I said, just curious.” He smiles, and hopes it's enough to keep him on the good side of a potential client.  
  
A couple minutes go by without a response, and Hawke takes that to mean an end in their conversation. He resumes his browsing, lost in a sea of dumb cat memes. When he looks over some time later, there's a new message in the chat box.  
  
 **HealingHands:** doctor  
  
“I’m sorry, I was distracted. Uh, what?”  
  
 **HealingHands:** I’m a doctor. General practice. sorry. it’s really late, and no one else is in the office tonight  
 **HealingHands:** there isn’t much to do here. sorry if that’s weird.  
  
Garret bites his lip to stop from chuckling. He imagines some middle-aged, pot-bellied doctor tucked in a darkened corner of his office, clutching his laptop and hoping he won't get caught. Ah, well. He’s heard worse stories, and he’s not one to judge how someone spends their time. Besides, it could more innocuous than that. Maybe the guy is just really shy, really bored, or both.  
  
“Oh, wow. That’s pretty cool. Don’t get caught on my account though , wouldn’t want you to get suspended or anything.” Garrett grins mischievously, and he can’t help it, it’s in his impish nature: he raises himself up off the bed, giving Healing more than an eyeful of his naked torso. He wonders if it has any effect at all.  
  
Conversation after that is pleasant. He learns that Healing’s shift ends at 2, and that he only meant to be on for five minutes before the Champion caught him in conversation, which Garrett only pretends to be apologetic about. He learns that Healing has had a pleasant, but long shift today, filled mostly with paperwork and lots of coffee. Hawke, for his part, remains mostly mum about his own day.  
  
When 2 am finally does roll around, Healing thanks him for the chat and wishes him a good night before signing off without much fuss. Hawke himself logs off soon after, puts the computer away and lays back on his bed.  
  
He isn’t sure how to feel about Healing. As a general rule of thumb, Hawke takes very little interest in visitors. Lurkers, especially. But there’s something...odd about this one. Painfully polite, a little shy, but candid and well meaning.   
  
He falls asleep wondering what his new little stalker looks like, and whether they’d ever get around to having a session together.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! A plot-heavy, Garret-POV chapter! I hope you all liked it. I'm so sorry for teasing you all with the barest hint of smut. It'll happen eventually, I promise. Don't forget to leave some feedback and let me know what you think so far, it keeps me excited about this series!
> 
> Coming up next chapter: Anders takes a bold step forward in his (practically inexistent) relationship with Garrett. Shenanigans ensue.


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